Mom and Dad
The roof overhead protects him from 
nature's wintry fist that smashes
into wooden siding like a hammer to a nail.
Without glasses, his eyes are like foggy mirrors.
Without shaving, brown hair climbs down his chin.
The blood colored blanket covers the bed in his room,
giving his spine relief from a hard day complying with
confusing customers at
Weaver’s Flooring America.
The heat escaping from the grate
overpowers winter’s grasp on the house.

The dreadful table of family dinner
causes the pain of arthritic hands
having to wash a three-foot stack of
sticky plates.
The dust balls under the leather sofa are inhaled
when she pushe s the vacuum
back and forth,
back
and
Forth.
Short brown hair,
sharp blue eyes,
and tired blue jeans.
She climbs into bed with him after
a long, child filled day.
Time slowly ticks away
while he snores as loud as
the creaking door to their basement.